Blank expectant faces stare at us as we rattle and flash through stations.
The day has come.
Yes, as we rise and fidget, a little nervously, we pray, holding in our hands this common feeling, "Do not move, do not let the swing door cut to pieces the thing that we have made, that globes itself here, among these lights, these peelings.'Now the car slides to a stop.And on one small table is one bound book.I pick a blue flower and fix it, standing on tiptoe to reach him, in his coat.'Yet when six o'clock comes and I touch my hat to the commissionaire, being always too effusive in ceremony since I desire so much to be accepted; and struggle, circle k gas station gift cards leaning against the wind, buttoned up, with my jaws blue and my eyes running water,.I remember his beauty.Hold it for ever.Like a tree, leaves fall.The streets are laced together with telegraph wires.
His being seemed conglobulated in his brow, his lips were pressed; his eyes were fixed, but suddenly they flashed with laughter.
I have sliced the waters of beauty in the evening when the hills close themselves like birds' wings folded.
I will not sit at a table, doing sums.
This is poetry if we do not write.
I will tell you the story of the doctor.He asks himself, as he half knows a woman in an opera cloak.I could feel him listening to sounds in the street.But if there are no stories, what end can there be, or what beginning?But without Percival there is no solidity.I am becoming weighed down with food.Here are hate, jealousy, hurry, and indifference frothed into the wild semblance of life.